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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25184767">Day 9: Gunplay</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImagineBeatles/pseuds/ImagineBeatles'>ImagineBeatles</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Magical Mystery Smut Month [10]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Beatles (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>1970s, Bottom John, Dom/sub Undertones, Gun Kink, Gunplay, Humiliation, John is jealous and angry, M/M, Magical Mystery Smut Month, Masturbation, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Photographs, Post-Break Up, Sexual Fantasy, but lightly, paul has a beard, smut as character study</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 07:49:03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,010</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25184767</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImagineBeatles/pseuds/ImagineBeatles</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>John wasn’t sure exactly how the photos had made it over to him. Someone must have given them to him, but John couldn’t for the life of him remember who or when or how or, more importantly, why. He just knew he had them now; photos of Paul, his Paul, shooting a gun in a recording studio somewhere in New York.</p>
<p>April, 1971. John receives pictures of Paul recording the gunshots for his song Oh Woman, Oh Why in New York. The sight of his ex-partner and lover shooting a gun, however, brings up some (maybe not so) unexpected desires.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>John Lennon/Paul McCartney, John Lennon/Yoko Ono - Mentioned, Linda McCartney/Paul McCartney - Background</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Magical Mystery Smut Month [10]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1811731</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>68</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Day 9: Gunplay</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I had never thought I would write a gun kink fic for John and Paul, but... honestly it worked pretty well and I'm in love with the concept. If I wrote it down well... I guess I'll see based on your reactions. This was originally going to be an AU, but I changed my mind because I really wanted to do something with those pictures of Paul shooting a gun while recording in New York in 1970. For the picture John is looking at, you can find it <a href="https://i.pinimg.com/originals/6b/2e/87/6b2e87182c95a1e4008c52f17751a222.jpg">here</a>. </p>
<p>Enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><span class="u"> April, 1971 </span><br/>John wasn’t sure exactly how the photos had made it over to him. Someone must have given them to him, but John couldn’t for the life of him remember who or when or how or, more importantly, <em> why. </em> He just knew he had them now; photos of Paul, <em> his Paul, </em>shooting a gun in a recording studio somewhere in New York. Or about to shoot a gun, undoubtedly recording the sound for his new song “Oh Woman, Oh Why”. The single had, much to John’s frustration, somehow made it to number 5 in America and number 2 in the UK this past month. </p>
<p>John was now playing the song as he stared at the pictures, the gunshots on the record vibrating through his body. The photos themselves were lying on his desk, and he couldn’t take his eyes away from them. His fingers played with the corners of the prints, feeling the need to touch as Paul’s voice sounded raw and gritty in his ears. </p>
<p>Staring at the photos themselves, the lyrics of Paul’s new song took on another, in a way ironic, meaning, the high strung feel of the song and the fiery delivery perfectly encapsulating John’s own mindset as he stared down at Paul shooting his gun. Although the gun wasn’t even pointed directly at the camera, the sound of the shorts still made it <em> feel </em>as if it was. </p>
<p><em> Oh, woman, oh why, why, why, why </em> <em><br/></em> <em> What have I done? </em> <em><br/></em> <em> Oh, woman, oh, where, where, where, where, where </em> <em><br/></em> <em> Did you get that gun? </em> <em><br/></em> <em> Oh, what have I done? </em></p>
<p>Paul was wearing the beard he had donned on and off since ‘69; thick, long and messy. His eyes were closed, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to expose his hairy forearms, and his fingers lay curled around the trigger with striking confidence. His free hand lay over his stomach, fingers inching into the top of his trousers, and a calmness lay over Paul’s entire being, making him look secure and confident. The rawness of Paul’s vocals, fiery and rough, combined with the heavy breathing halfway through the song, only added to the pure sexual power the picture seemed to<em> exude.  </em></p>
<p><em> Oh, woman, oh, where, where, where, where, where </em> <em><br/></em> <em> Did you get that gun? </em> <em><br/></em> <em> *bang* *bang* </em> <em><br/></em> <em> Woman, what have I done? </em> <em><br/></em> <em> *bang* *bang* </em> <em><br/></em> <em> What have you done? </em> <em><br/></em> <em> *bang* *bang* </em></p>
<p>Tightening his grip on the print, he pulled the image closer. He was alone and would be for at least another two hours, a rare occurrence in his life lately, with Yoko almost constantly being by his side. And if it wasn’t Yoko, someone else would be there who wanted something from him. </p>
<p>People always seemed to want something from him these days. Part of it was his own fault for going on this huge publicity tour, mainly with the goal to strengthen his own new image, or to establish the JohnandYoko myth in the minds of the public, but not in the least to jab a few knifes in the wound of the ego and public image of the man whose picture he was holding at that moment, hoping (mainly) (desperately) for a reaction. </p>
<p>Staring at the photo, John could not help but feel old feelings resurface. Or maybe “resurface” wasn’t exactly the best description for it, considering the feelings had never actually left. He had just pushed them deep down in the hope they would go away. But they never had. For three years, John had tried to get Paul’s attention, had tried to get him to acknowledge him and his feelings, had tried to push Paul into fighting for him. But a year ago he had also given up, when Paul had announced he was leaving The Beatles. Despite that, he was still trying to get his attention, even now, long after “the divorce” and even after Paul’d had the gall to sue him over Klein and to legally dissolve the band. </p>
<p>He knew he was kidding himself. If anything had become clear over the past two years, or even since the recording of the White Album, it was that Paul had never really cared about him. Paul had never really loved him — had never really wanted him. And no matter what John would do, Paul would not suddenly turn around and beg John to come back to him, to dump Yoko and continue writing music, just the two of them. Paul would never go on his knees and offer John what he had been wanting since the day he had first met Paul, and which he had only had the nerve to ask for back in India. </p>
<p>But although he knew all that, he could not help but try. The feelings were still there, painful and violent, unrelenting even after all those years, no matter what John tried. Even looking at Paul’s pictures while he was alone in his office, those feelings still swelled within him, insistent and undeniable. No matter what he tried, Paul was always right there under his skin, running through his veins across his entire being. He would never be able to get rid of him. </p>
<p>Getting up, John locked the door to his office, and took his seat by his desk, his ankle resting on his knee. Taking one of the pictures, he placed it on his bended leg and stared, letting his thoughts drift as he took in every detail, his eyes sliding over the photo and coming to rest on Paul’s hand, wrapped around the gun, his finger on the trigger. The sexual tension dripped from the photo, and John had to swallow as he felt his throat get a little dry. </p>
<p>To say Paul was still on his mind more often than not was an understatement. Even late at night he still thought about him, when Yoko was asleep and he managed to find a moment of privacy. He hated himself for it, for letting Paul get to him like that — <em> still! </em> — even though they hadn’t slept together since their trip to New York in ‘68. For allowing Paul to still get him all worked up, to get him all needy and wanting, just from hearing his voice on the radio, or seeing his name in a magazine, or even from a simple picture — a picture like this one. </p>
<p>But Paul had that power. And John wasn’t quite ready to let him go. </p>
<p>Glancing one last time at the clock and the door, John let his hand fall in his lap, right onto his crotch, where he found himself already half-hard just from looking at the photo. He imagined himself there, in the recording studio, watching as Paul shot blanks into thin air, perfectly in time with the music in his headphones. He imagined them alone, the studio deserted. He pictured Paul’s eyes opening and landing on John, the gun lowering as they stared at each other, seeing each other — maybe <em> really </em>seeing each other — for the first time in years. </p>
<p>He imagined Paul beckoning him closer, hazel eyes dark and dominant, not saying a word; telling him to do so with a hand motion that John could not help but obey. </p>
<p>Paul had always had some sort of spell over him. When they had been together, before their relationship — or what John had imagined to be a relationship, but had now realised was barely more than a fanciful dream — deteriorated and collapsed the way it had, they had played with that, incorporated John’s inexplicable need to be dominated and controlled into their little sexual games. And still, that need remained.</p>
<p>Looking at the way Paul held that gun in the photo made John wish Paul would use it on him. Not to shoot, but to please, the hint of danger giving an extra dimension to the man’s power that on the one hand, had been so admirable but on the other, had simultaneously made him feel worthless, always making him fear his own uselessness, making him fear that Paul did not actually need him. A fear that had, he had come to learn, been more than warranted. </p>
<p>Squeezing himself through his trousers, John imagined Paul grabbing him by his shoulder, making John’s breath hitch as he pulled him closer and to his knees, forcing John to kneel on the floor before his feet. He imagined Paul taking the gun and running it along his cheek, the cool metal pressing against his skin as a threat — or maybe a promise? — for what was about to come. Just the thought was enough to make John’s body shiver. </p>
<p>Paul would look gorgeous, just as he did in the picture: his eyes dark and half-lidded, looking down as he dragged the barrel of the gun over John’s face, from his cheeks, over his jaw, to chin, and over his neck. He’d have his legs parted in this wide stance, towering over John, and John groaned as he squeezed himself again, feeling how his cock twitched into complete hardness at the image. </p>
<p>“Paulie...” he moaned, biting his lip and glancing once more at the picture in his lap before his eyes fell closed. He let out another tiny groan as he saw Paul grin down at him. He pressed the gun against the underside of John’s chin and angled his head up, forcing him to look at him. </p>
<p>“Quiet, Lennon,” Paul said, voice low and rough, and John swallowed thickly in response. In his fantasy he tried to hold still as Paul continued to trace the end of the barrel over his chin and to his lips, sliding the shaft along them. John groaned, wanting to open his mouth, but he refrained, Paul’s intense stare making John reluctant to do anything Paul had not explicitly told him to do. </p>
<p>“You’re pathetic, you know that?” fantasy Paul said, his tone cold, and John blinked up at him as Paul pressed the gun to his bottom lip, pulling it downwards. “Showing off to the world how ‘great’ your life is, while actually you’re just a pathetic little boy. Insecure. Worthless. Bitter. Nothing more than a jealous ex-lover trying to destroy what was once his and he now can’t have.” </p>
<p>With a rough jerk, Paul tangled his hand into John’s hair, giving it a hard pull as John groaned in response. The hand on John’s crotch slowed, and he squeezed himself harder as he inched his hips up, buckling into his own hand. </p>
<p>“You can’t <em> actually </em> hurt me, John,” Paul spat, leaning in closer as he pushed the barrel of the gun between John’s lips. “You might try. You might try to hurt me, to <em> defame </em> my name. And yet here I still am! You can’t actually <em> wound </em> me. You could <em> never </em> keep up with me. You’re <em> pathetic, </em> trying to show people how great you are, while we both know you and your new little wife ain’t worth <em> shit, </em> hiding away in some fancy estate while preaching your political drizzle.” </p>
<p>John looked up at him with wide eyes as he spoke, watching the flame in Paul’s eyes, burning with heat and anger, finally giving John the reaction he had longed for. It was an odd sight to see, Paul’s eyes, which used to be so sweet and gleeful, always twinkling with excitement, now shining with indignation and resentment. There was still a twinkle there, but not the one he was used to - and when Paul pulled back, straightening himself out, John knew what was to come. </p>
<p>“Open up, Lennon,” Paul ordered, and John obeyed, parting his lips as Paul thrust the gun inside. John could practically taste it, metallic and tangy, and his cock throbbed as he imagined Paul sliding it over his tongue, deeper and deeper, making him gag. </p>
<p>“Pathetic,” Paul repeated and John moaned around the narrow barrel as Paul retreated a little, letting it rest on his tongue, hard and heavy. </p>
<p>“Suck on it.” </p>
<p>And god, John <em> wanted </em>to suck on it. He wanted to feel Paul move the little black gun in and out of his mouth, fucking him with it as John closed his lips around it and tried his best, moaning as he sucked. He imagined himself swirling his tongue around it and taking it in deeper as he bobbed his head up and down. He wanted Paul to watch him do it, wanted Paul to see how desperate for him he really was, willing to suck even the gun Paul held in his hand. Somewhere, he really wanted the gun to be loaded, giving Paul complete power over his life and trusting him not to take it from him. He longed to be completely at his mercy.</p>
<p>Opening his trousers, John slid a hand into his underwear. He hissed as his cold fingers found his cock, heated and hard, and biting his tongue in discomfort, he wrapped his fingers around it, squeezing and stroking, as he moaned Paul’s name. </p>
<p>“Such a pathetic little whore, getting off on sucking a gun. I bet you’d even let me fuck you with it,” the Paul in his head said, and John groaned as he imagined himself slurping around the awkward shaped metal, spit dripping down the corner of his mouth, while he touched himself. Paul tutted in disapproval. </p>
<p>Still, John could see Paul was hard, and sucking harder, he imagined the gun to be Paul’s cock, wanting that instead. But no matter what he tried, Paul refused to give it to him. </p>
<p>“Up,” he finally said, pulling the gun from John’s lips and stepping back to let John get to his feet. “Up! Up!” </p>
<p>Quickly, John did as requested, scrambling to his feet as his legs swayed. </p>
<p>“Over the table,” Paul ordered, nodding at a table a little to his right, where his empty tea cup sat. </p>
<p>Once again, John obeyed, his cheeks burning as he laid himself over the table, down on his stomach, his arse in Paul’s direction. He moaned as he felt Paul’s hands make quick work of his trousers, pulling them down to his thighs to expose him. </p>
<p>John wanted Paul to fuck him with the gun. He wanted Paul to degrade him like that, to lay him out and force the little black pistol into him as Paul stroked himself, gasping filth into John’s ear. And so John imagined it as he worked himself over in his desk chair.</p>
<p>Groaning softly to himself, John imagined Paul opening him up with his finger. He could almost feel his hand hard around the back of his neck, holding him down as he forced first one, then two, inside of him. He imagined Paul twisting them around, stretching him. He envisioned Paul pulling out and slapping his arse once or twice before grabbing the gun, pushing it back into John’s mouth to get it all wet again, before lining the blunt shaft up with his hole. He imagined it pressing into him - how it would feel as the metal was pushed into his arse cold, hard and unforgiving. He imagined how it would hurt, just a little, worsened by Paul telling him what a slut he was, getting hard just from having a gun shoved inside of him. </p>
<p>It was degrading and John didn’t quite know why he wanted it, but he did. He wanted Paul to react to him, wanted Paul to see him, wanted Paul to recognise what he was doing and <em> respond. </em> He wanted Paul to show him how he felt about him. That he felt <em> anything at all! </em>Even if that meant responding with something like this. </p>
<p>He imagined Paul fucking him open with the gun, grabbing both of John’s wrists and locking them together behind his back as his moved the metal in and out. He saw himself moaning at the feeling, trembling around the intrusion and pressing back against it. He imagined Paul leaning over his body, pressing kisses onto his shoulder blades, his thick beard prickling pleasant against John’s skin. </p>
<p>Finally, he imagined Paul pulling out, throwing the gun aside with a loud clatter as he undid his own trousers, taking his cock out and thrusting inside of him, making John cry out as he fucked him, hard, his hand pulling at John’s hair. </p>
<p>“Paul…” John moaned, trying to bite it back, but failing. He opened his eyes to look at the photo, his orgasm drawing closer as he sped up his movements. “Paul…” </p>
<p>When John came, he did so with a sob, imagining Paul spilling inside him too, as the fantasy version of himself did the same against the table. </p>
<p>He caught his breath for a moment, keeping his eyes closed as he sat in his chair, slowly drifting away from the fantasy and back into his own world. He didn’t want to see the rest of it, fearing what it would be, fearing the pain Paul might cause with his words. But more than that, he feared the sincerity in his voice, he feared Paul would turn gentle, and speak words John was sure he would never say to him for real. He didn’t want that pain. </p>
<p>When he had finally come back down and opened his eyes, John looked down at the photo in his lap and sighed. He <em> was </em>pathetic, still longing for a man who had given up on him years ago. Even masturbating didn’t give him the gratification he longed for. </p>
<p>Reaching into one of the desk drawers, he took out a box of tissues and quickly cleaned himself, dropping the used paper towels into a nearby bin he would have emptied out later. He straightened himself out, picked up the print with the other from his desk, and with a huff ripped them in two, then four, then eight, and added them to the dirty tissues in the bin. </p>
<p><em> Oh, woman, oh why, why, why, why </em> <em><br/></em> <em> What have I done? </em> <em><br/></em> <em> Oh, woman, oh, where, where, where, where, where </em><br/><em> Did you get that gun? </em> <em><br/>Oh, what have you done?</em></p>
<p>Shaking his head, John got up from his seat. He needed some fresh air.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you, Daisy, for reading this through for me!! You're amazing and I appreciate you so much. We don't deserve you &lt;3</p>
<p>Just to keep in mind, Paul's character in this is supposed to be a fantasy version of him that John would come up with, and is less a representation of who he actually is. I also added some personal headcanons on the "McLennon story", let's say. This is not to say that this is what I actually think is what happened. My thoughts about that keep changing almost every day. It's just one of the many versions that I have. </p>
<p>I hope you guys liked this one. Tomorrow's prompt is "armpit fetish" and will exactly be inspired by Paul's poem "Rockin' On."</p></blockquote></div></div>
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